Skeleton 03 - The Constantine Codex (40 page)

In Cambridge, the only slight breach in security seemed to be the day that Zachary Alexander, an Associated Press stringer in Boston, came to Jon’s office to inquire about “some important document” he was supposed to have discovered somewhere in Turkey after the debate at Hagia Sophia and then delivered to the Ecumenical Patriarchate in Istanbul. Even as his heart nearly froze in midbeat, Jon affected a forced smile and asked the man where in the world he had heard such a thing.

“My cousin Brett has the AP desk in Istanbul,” Alexander said, “and he wanted an interview with the patriarch because of all the in-and-out traffic there after you left.”

“And did the patriarch grant it?”

“No, he didn’t. It was Brett’s guess that some old manuscript—or whatever—was involved.”

While a “white lie” of denial might have been justified at this point, Jon tried redirection instead. “It was my wife Shannon who found an old document at Pella, which really isn’t all that important. But she’d prefer no publicity on it until she’s done the usual translation and commentary.”

“Hmm . . . figures, I guess.”

“Tell you what. Let’s make a deal—you stay mum on this for now, and you’ll be the first media person I call when it’s time to go public. Deal?”

“Deal.”

It was a close shave, but no cigar. Obviously—despite the stolen codex—the good Lord
was
watching over their enterprise. If only the missing codex weren’t such an unforeseen and totally loathsome complication!

Jon would never forget the day, the hour, or the event. No known expressions in the English language could cover it. Nor, he thought, could those of any other language spoken by the civilized. “Bolt from the blue” came close, but that was still pathetically inadequate to describe what actually happened.

He was sitting at his office desk at Harvard, reviewing the latest findings from the ICO committees, when Marylou Kaiser announced, “The FedEx man just delivered something for you, Dr. Weber, and I signed for it. Want me to bring it in?”

“Sure—if it isn’t big and heavy.”

“Well,” she admitted, “it
could
be both.”

Jon immediately got up and went to the receiving table in her office. The large box measured something like eighteen inches square and over a foot in height. It was well wrapped with brown tape and was indeed surprisingly heavy. Quickly Jon looked for the name of the sender and read:

Al-Azhar Mosque and University

Office of the Grand Sheikh

Madinat Nasi

Cairo, the Arab Republic of Egypt

“Well, what in the world?” Jon wondered. “Abbas al-Rashid and I haven’t been in contact since the debate, other than the usual exchanges of thanks. What do you think’s inside?”

“Probably a big, ornate copy of the Qur’an,” she opined. “He wanted to convert you to Islam, didn’t he?”

“You know, you could be right, Marylou. And that would be
very
sticky. I’d love to maintain the man’s friendship, but I doubt I’ll be making
that
particular pilgrimage!”

“Well, that’s a relief! Muslims don’t treat their women very well, and that would include secretaries.”

Jon cut through strip after strip of tape, then opened the lid of the box. All he saw was packing popcorn. Marylou hurried over with a wastebasket to prevent her office floor from being littered with Styrofoam pellets. Finally Jon saw the dark tannish cover of what appeared to be some large tome, lifted it free of the packing, and set it on the table.

It was then that breath and heartbeat nearly failed him. It was a codex.

It was
the
codex.

He slumped down onto a chair, held his forehead, and mumbled, “How? . . . Why? . . . It’s simply not possible . . .”

His eyes were locked in wonderment on the codex. Nothing else existed for him at that moment.

“Are you okay, Dr. Jon?” Marylou asked.

“This is . . . beyond . . . all . . . belief.” Slowly he came back to life. “It shouldn’t have been sent FedEx. It shouldn’t have been
sent
at all, and yet here it is.”

Marylou seized the moment, opened the codex, and withdrew a letter that was inserted just under the cover. “Shall I read it to you?” she asked.

Jon was too dazed to reply, so she took it upon herself to read him the following:

Dear Professor Weber:

I greet you in the name of the God we both serve!

I am sure that the document I have enclosed has much meaning for you and the faith you so ably represent. It was only by great fortune that I was able to obtain it. I knew nothing of your connection to this document until it arrived at al-Azhar University.

It was sent from Istanbul by a radical group of jihadists in Turkey. They wrote that they had managed to take the document from the Ecumenical Patriarch at the airport in Istanbul. But they could not translate it or risk having it translated by any local Greek Orthodox Christians, so they sent it to a Greek scholar in our Department of Classical Languages here at al-Azhar for translation. That would help them know how much to ask for ransom, they wrote.

They trusted this scholar—nameless, for his own security—because he was a secret member of the Muslim Brotherhood, and so a fellow jihadist—or so they imagined. In fact, he is a Muslim moderate—our own agent in their radical ranks, since we have also learned to play their game by way of defense. You should not worry about his future safety or that of his family. His role here was becoming more and more difficult, and this was his last service for us before leaving Egypt to teach elsewhere under a new identity.

At first, I had planned to return the document to the Ecumenical Patriarch, but those who stole the document also mentioned your strong interest in this work, and I thought it safer to send it directly to you in America. Later, you may return it to the patriarch with proper security.

I am glad to have this opportunity of being of some service to you, since I place great value on our continuing friendship. You would be more than welcome to give a presentation at al-Azhar University at any time you see fit, and I hope that our paths will indeed cross in the future.

Yours, with admiration,

Abbas al-Rashid

Grand Sheikh

Jon shook his head. “What extraordinary
nobility
. Abbas has a higher standard of ethics than I’ve seen in many Christians. What a man! What a truly
great
man!”

Swimming in waves of elation, Jon picked up the phone and called Shannon. Her
“What!”
was so loud it nearly damaged his eardrum.

His next call was to Morton Dillingham. The least a good citizen could do was to save the CIA—and the federal government—any further expenses in a search that was no longer necessary. Not everything was solved, to be sure, especially the question of how the jihadist perpetrators at Istanbul learned about the codex and were able to get its dimensions right for their fake copy of the codex, but those problems could be solved later on. For now, the codex was
here
 . . . present . . . real . . . and in the U.S.!

Jon’s last call was to the Ecumenical Patriarch in Istanbul, who wept for joy at the news. Before leaving his office, Jon also dictated the most cordial, most enthusiastic letter of appreciation to Abbas al-Rashid he had ever written to anyone, anywhere, at any time.

Jon determined to make short work of the authenticity tests on the codex itself. Putting on white gloves, he cut a small hanging flap of aged tan leather from the cover of the codex and inserted it into a lead-lined pouch. Then he opened the codex and turned through ten pages of Matthew’s Gospel until, on page eleven, he found a dog-ear at the upper right corner that was threatening to separate from the rest of the vellum. Carefully, he cut it free. This he also inserted into a separate pouch, then sent both via UPS Express to his friend Duncan Fraser at the radiocarbon labs of the University of Arizona in Tucson.

Fraser had helped him with crucial C-14 tests before, most recently on the leaves Shannon had brought back from Pella, so when Jon phoned to alert him to the express shipment, he seemed unsurprised.

“Since it’s you again, Jon,” Fraser commented genially, “I’ll bet your samples came from, say, Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.”

“No, Duncan. Earlier.”

“Okay, how about the Magna Carta?”

“No, earlier still. But no more clues, Duncan. That wouldn’t be scientific, now, would it? You and TAMS will have to tell me the date, but do treat those samples as if they were a letter from God himself.”

“Got it.”

Under normal circumstances, Jon would have sent the codex itself to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., where another friend, Sandy McHugh, would have given it a variety of forensic tests. But Jon decided that the reverse had to happen. The scientists would have to come to Cambridge instead, so very priceless was the codex. He was simply unwilling to risk its safety again.

In fact, a parade of scientists came not only from Washington, but from other points on the compass for an extraordinary, secret conclave. Members of the ICO filed one by one to examine the precious document, as well as Daniel Wallace and his delegation from the Center for the Study of New Testament Manuscripts. Wallace quipped that he felt like Simeon: ready to depart this life since the ultimate manuscript discovery had been made and he had seen it.

Perhaps the most colorful, yet crucial of the many imported experts was Lancaster Whimpole, curator of manuscripts for the British Library in London. Here was the man who was largely responsible not only for that library’s immense collection of papyri, but who also served as curator for the until-now greatest of all New Testament manuscripts, the
Codex Sinaiticus
. Whimpole was a tall, tweedy Oxonian sort who looked like James I of England, though even more slender, his teeth yellowed from years of contact with a meerschaum pipe. Whimpole did not suffer fools gladly and could detect fraud with one eye at a distance of fifty paces. Jon knew the man would have to be skeptical regarding the codex since nothing could dare rival “his”
Sinaiticus
.

Watching Whimpole examine the codex was an event in itself. He bent over the document like a Sherlock Holmes—with magnifying glass but without the silly cap. His gloved hands felt the texture of the cover and swept across the pages of vellum. From time to time he would stop, squint, use the magnifying glass, and then move on. He pulled out an orthography chart of Greek writing styles from the first to the fifth century AD and compared the uncial lettering for each era. He then superimposed another chart of the uncials in the
Sinaiticus
and nodded briefly—the first sign of any sort that his poker face or bodily mien had betrayed.